


danger night

by dead_dove



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, based off the isko exo rp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-27 06:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17156819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dead_dove/pseuds/dead_dove
Summary: yixing should never have opened his phone and logged back in again.





	danger night

**Author's Note:**

> tw for mentions of suicide, discussions of depression, and language
> 
> based on the isko exo rp on twitter. all rights reserved for them. i don’t own anything. 
> 
> this fic is also set in both english and filipino—i didn’t translate the filipino parts, since if you know about the rp that this is based on, i’m assuming you can understand the language too haha

 

 

it’s been almost half a year since yixing voluntarily decided to delete his twitter app. it wasn’t the _same “i’m going to delete twitter to focus on my life”_ but have it buried in a random app folder on his phone. it wasn’t even comparable to the time he actually downloaded an anti-distraction-slash-social media app to counter twitter, only to think about it every second of the day, like a nagging reminder that he must be missing out on something.

 

no.

 

when yixing deleted his twitter, it was with finality. he didn’t even allow himself to think about it, deleting it from the dark, treacherous corners of his mind, forcing himself to forget, to close it off, _click_.

 

it was the same thing that he did, last summer, when he finally clicked  _mute_.

 

but somehow, whatever forces of the universe that took his hand and directed it to the mute button probably had an ulterior motive. looking back, he should have clicked  _unfollow_  instead, or even better— _block_ —but his godforsaken mind was still drowning in the desperate ecstasy of  _hope_ —hope that he’d be better, that  _they’d be better._

 

 _hope is the opium of the masses,_ because isn’t _hope_ what religion offers?

 

fuck his dumb, stupid mind (heart). it was what led him to this place, anyway.

 

 

frustrated, he rolled over on his bed, choosing to face the wall instead. his room was barely-lit, with only a string of his mom’s old christmas lights illuminating the room. she was the one who put it up; he had to put some life into his room, she had said. 

 

so there he laid, staring at the blank wall in front of him. it never used to be so bare, so lifeless. there used to be letters, pictures, _memories_ —life used to flow through the cracks on cement, used to add weight to the endless white paint. and yet, and _yet_ —

 

it had been part of his promise, of his attempt, at forgetting. social media could never be enough, he had to _forget_ , outside of a digital screen, beyond the username and the void of the internet.

 

he turned around from the twinkling warm light, whose every blink taunted him. the mere, continuous loop of the lights’ on-off showed him the movement, the activity, the  _life,_ _the warmth_  he missed. he couldn’t remember the last time he felt alive. he couldn’t remember how it could have felt, not to have a cold void for a heart. and now here he was, envious of a string of christmas lights.

 

truly, his mother was being ridiculous when she put the lights up. he couldn’t even put some life into his  _life_ —how could he possibly think of his room at that time?

 

 _you can’t love others unless you love yourself_ —maybe it wasn’t as bullshit as he thought it was. maybe, just maybe, it could be applied somewhere else, too—because how could his mother expect him to breathe life into his every day again when he couldn’t find the strength to _want_ to?

 

but deep inside, he understood why his mother was being like that, why she was trying so _hard_. it was . . . it was probably terrifying for her to see her only son like that, sitting in front of her in the dining table but looking so far away, as if some invisible void had decided to prey upon him, pulling him deeper and deeper into some abyss that was worse than hell. as if he was being taken from her, piece by piece, and she couldn’t possibly do anything to stop it.

 

it  _was_  worse than hell—at least satan himself doesn’t give a shit about him, instead choosing to punish everyone in the same way, giving them what they deserve. this one, this void—it even pretended that he was special, that he was loved, that he was  _enough._ _it made itself his friend, his constant companion, and made him fear its disappearance._ _what would you be without me?_

 

he remembered the times his mother would reach out, pull his hand into hers, and  _squeeze_ , trying to wake him up from his mysterious reverie. he’d just stare at her, still blankly, unable to say the words he wanted to explain with, unable to find it in himself to offer a shred of comfort.

 

 _“minumulto ka na naman?”_  his mother would ask.  _“where is that invisible monster, yixing? i’ll spray it again with lysol,”_ she’d joke, ever smiling. she always did her best to smile. but her eyes betrayed her confidence; she was scared— _scared for him_ , and yixing doesn’t know how to make it better. maybe he did, but he had lost it—just like he had lost himself.

 

(“ _the monster isn’t invisible_ ,” he had been tempted to explain. “ _his name_   _is kim junmyeon, mama._ ”)

 

he closed his eyes, further pushing away the lights mocking him from behind out of his mind. it was in the wee hours of the morning, everyone was asleep—well, those with healthy minds were. people like him who were the victims of ghost hauntings had no right to feel safe, to feel secure. they didn’t deserve sleep; they deserve to be paranoid, to be on edge, to be—

 

( _you were stupid once and look what happened. there is no rest for the wicked, and maybe you do deserve hell._ )

 

he took a deep breath, trying to compose himself even though he knew that the impending breakdown was on the horizon, waiting, smiling at him and waiting for him to just _look_. he just hoped it wouldn’t come with the sun’s rise, mindlessly praying that the dark will swallow it whole.

 

_(pray, and hope, and hope again. here you go.)_

at least, he justified to himself, the night was always home to impromptu emotional crises—it was  _normal_. it wasn’t one of  _those nights_ , a consequence of the coldness, the loneliness, the hopelessness. tonight was just—tonight was a blip, one he’d get through just like he had all the nights before.

 

( _repeat that over and over again, yixing. learn from your mistakes—even just this time._ )

 

addicts called these nights  _danger nights_ , according to his binge-reading sessions of seedy forums on much seedier websites he had done, on nights just like this: filled with too many thoughts and pain and time. it was like an extended playlist of the infamous devil’s hour, wherein the moon glowed above, mocking those who were unfortunate enough to understand its story. she was every addict’s version of yixing’s christmas lights, taunting and offering a beautiful backdrop as each one teetered on the lines between survival and demise.

 

a bitter laugh managed to escape from his chest, throwing it into the confidence of his dark room. it was akin to a confession, now he thought of it, for so long he convinced himself that he didn’t care, that he wasn’t affected, that he was  _done._  but joke’s on him— _this_   _is a danger night._

 

he wondered if junmyeon saw the moon tonight, if he was watching the sky. he probably hasn’t, but he knew that it was christmas, and the boy had this weird habit of pushing away all the fake presents in their big-ass christmas tree in order to lie beneath and look at the lights.

 

he wondered if junmyeon looked at those lights the same way he did. he probably didn’t. junmyeon had probably never experienced being taunted, being pained ever in his life.

 

(maybe it was always the other way around).

 

( _or maybe he finally did when you left, yixing_ ).

 

someone knocked on his door, making him unconsciously grip his blanket tighter. “xing.” it was his mom, her soft voice providing him the sort of warmth and comfort his blanket failed to give. it was maybe a mother’s intuition—he swore she always had some sort of internal radar when it comes to him. she probably sensed that it was another danger night. (or maybe that comes in the territory of motherhood, like an unlocked superpower you develop when you once saw your son in his bedroom, pale, cold, still, and almost  _lifele—_ ).

 

yixing put one hand under his pillow and clenched his eyes shut even more furiously. something was rising in his chest again; he could feel his throat constricting.  _no no no no don’t you dare think about that again you’re over him you’re over him he’s gone he’s gone you should be gon—_

 

“xing? ‘nak, is everything okay?” his mom asked from outside his door. “are you hungry? do you want to taste-test the ham for tomorrow as a midnight snack?” she offered, and yixing could hear the smile in her words. but he knew that one look at her would see that she wasn’t happy— _like she was before when—_

 

“i-i’m fine, mom,” he managed to answer back. there was a slight pause, then yixing heard his mother’s retreating footsteps. he buried himself even deeper in his bed.

 

he could feel the coldness and darkness of his room stare at him, with the back of his neck prickling with goosebumps. if tonight was any similar to all of his danger nights, one thing was for sure: he was never going to be able to sleep. his mind would race, his heart would pound, and all he would want was to end  _it_ —

 

_feels good doesn’t it, to finally rest, to be gone, to—_

 

(again but he knew he couldn’t—he couldn’t do that to his mom again, and he couldn’t bear to hear her wonder while she thought he was asleep, “am i still going to be a mother with you gone, xingxing? it was the greatest thing that happened to me and i—“)

 

so he’ll lay in bed and block every thought, every stimulus that comes to his senses and try to find some semblance of rest, in an emptiness that blazes with the tempest of _hurt anger confusion_. that was better, wasn’t it, rather than the odds that were stacked against him. as he tried to drown himself in the blankness, he’d try to keep his head dry under the relentless storm and wait, wait, and just  _wait_ —for the sun to rise, for her light to shine on him, for some warmth to be bestowed to him— _comfort_.

 

and if there were none, he’ll just continue waiting. that was the best thing to do, because as always, it was the only thing he could do.

 

he refused to think of what he could  _actually_ do and let himself be satisfied by that.

 

before he could scream in frustration, pulls himself over to lie on his back, staring at his ceiling instead of his wall. still as bare, still as empty—still as lifeless as the rest of his room. his ceiling still bore remnants of stickers and glow-in-the-dark stars they had stuck there like the children they were deep inside, just so they could—

 

  1. _no_. 



 

he couldn’t actually see much of it, but this was enough—he  _just needed to pass the time_. he just needed to make it subside, to let it all  _pass._ he just needed to  _wait, because it will get better, like it did before he was going to be better he was going to forget he was going to live, no,_ survive _he was going to breathe like he has done for the past six months and more he was going to be okay okay okay_

 

his reverie was broken by his phone vibrating. it lit up his room, and the thirst for distraction led him to immediately take it from where he was charging it on his floor. instantly he saw what the notification was, and particularly,  _who_  it was from. 

 

he dropped the phone on the floor, leaving it to bang loudly.

 

he heard his mom call out his name, worriedly, from another room. she sounded so far away.

 

addicts called these nights  _danger nights_  because they  _were_ in danger. chased by monsters outside of their control, created by their minds and bodies and the hatred of the world, born from sleepless nights and pained memories, danger was everywhere, high, waving his guns and demanding their surrender. it was the night to fortify the walls, barricade the gates, and protect themselves from another invasion that guaranteed their loss— _their demise_. it was the night to hide, to bury themselves somewhere they could not be found, somewhere that even the demons inside them didn’t know about, because  _at any time,_  their minds could be cruel enough to betray them and relish their weaknesses.

 

this was the night they had to jump into oceans and turn towards storms and hope the darkness couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ follow.

 

_(but who was he kidding his demons knew how to swim they were the best at hide-and-seek they knew how to smell his fear his pain his desperation—)_

 

he was in danger, and he knew it. he left the bed, bending down to take his phone into his hands. this was it, his last line of defense: a small device, capable of possibly breaking him, where he was, six months later.

 

it was his last remaining shreds of self-control singing to him, begging him to say no. but he was  _an addict_ —and that was what led him to this night, anyway.

 

these nights were always a battle of various opponents—man versus others, man versus himself, man versus the harsh memories of another man. but tonight, it was man versus the temptation of hurling himself headfirst into the line of fire, going into the battle he was born to lose.

 

he surrendered.

 

he opened his phone and junmyeon’s message for him. he already lost the moment junmyeon sent that text anyway.

 

 

_**From +639540258xxx** _

_hi, yixing. you’ve probably changed your phone number already, so this is utterly pointless, ano? haha I just wanted to wish you a merry christmas, even though you won’t see this. i know how much you liked christmas, especially the warm lights haha. remember when you liked to watch them from below the christmas tree with me? i thought that was weird at first, but i guess . . . you didn’t make it weird. you made it so much . . . i don’t know._

 

_i don’t even know why i’m texting you when you won’t see this anyway i just . . . i wanted to greet you on your favorite holiday early. i guess this is the only time i did that haha. funny, ‘no? after everything, it’s just now that i’m trying to make bawi._

 

_that sounds so selfish and it is and well you won’t see this anyway yixing so this is just me screaming to the void but i miss you. god, i miss you so much, it’s not even . . . she doesn’t compare, love. i’m so sorry and if i could do anything to . . . well i don’t deserve you naman but fuck me for being so selfish. every night i pray that you’re okay but my mind is so gago that i can’t help wishing na you’re not okay without me. or us being not okay together. but more me than you, because well . . ._

 

_fuck i’m such a shitty person hahahahaha it’s such a good thing i lost you. but tangina it hurts so much xing. i lost the best thing that happened to me and it’s my fault and i can’t . . . hahahahahahahaahha_

 

_merry christmas, love. i’ll try to promise that this is the last time i’d allow myself to message you, but idk if i can stay true to that haha. i know you’ll never see this, and i’m so glad for that. i just hope that one day it’ll get better for all of us._

 

_the kids miss their kuya na rin eh._

 

 

he took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. he failed. his mind was racing, with different thoughts firing everywhere he couldn’t even discern what was going on. this storm was worse the storms created by his own mind, because this was a storm he could not ever get through unscathed. this is a storm of memories, thoughts, emotions.

 

his heart was pounding, as if it was racing against time to try and escape from his chest. this had been a mistake. this was why kids were often told that addiction was going to ruin their lives. look at him now—where was the life in him? down the drain, mingling with filth, interspersed with the dirt and ground that yixing has since longed to be a part of but failed.

 

for so long he had told himself that he was okay, but here he was, lying in the dark, uncontrollably falling into a sobbing fit. he clenched his left hand into a fist and stuffed his mouth, trying to stifle the impending wave of crying that he could feel was close. after everything that happened between him and junmyeon, after everything that junmyeon did—there was still a part of him that was still in love with him, that still held on with hopeless and desperate belief on his words that he missed yixing. after everything, he still loved the man—and nothing was more painful than the stark reminder that something you tried so hard to get rid of was still there.

 

he looked at the string of christmas lights that still twinkled in his room. looks like it wasn’t the only thing to taunt him tonight. his own fucking feelings that he had buried were right there, waving right in front of his face, like a child craving affection.

 

the universe was probably laughing at him right now. “merry christmas, yixing,” it probably said. “the only coming of christ you should be celebrating is the one on your deathbed, because hell,  _you’ve done it again_.”

 

(maybe it was time to— _his mom his mom his mom_ —)

 

yixing blinked at the thought of the kids. chanyeol, sehun, jongin, baekhyun, kyungsoo, and tao. how were they? 

 

when chanyeol and baekhyun graduated, he had promised to treat the boys with dinner, but he never really got around to it. were they still together? yixing always admired their relationship, but as a kuya, he’d been scared of what the future would hold for them. he wondered how sehun and jongin were now—did kyungsoo’s family approve of jongin already? has sehun and luhan gotten back together? how were their theses coming up—jongin would probably have no problem because that kid was amazing, but he knew the best of the best carry the most pressure on their shoulders. the last time he had any contact with the boy was when his father died—how was jongin coping? it was hard being the only man of the family, the only one to— _god_. he should have been there for them. especially kyungsoo—kyungsoo who was silent, stoic, but firm. kyungsoo who saw all sides of the story before quietly but formidably making a stand. kyungsoo who  _understood_  him— _them_ —simply nodding when he had casually mentioned that “he was going away. just for a while”. kyungsoo had always been the one to quietly observe, quietly support—he deserved someone who’d  _understand_ him too, even outside the confines of a relationship. heaven knows there are parts that kyungsoo hid, even from jongin. god—how was tao? he heard about what happened with yifan, and weirdly enough, it was from yifan himself. if there were anyone from the kids that probably loved the same way as him, it was tao—he knew how hard it could be to love someone when the odds are stacked against you. to continue to love them even though every force of the universe is telling you to not to— _god_ he hoped tao didn’t end up like him.

 

_half-dead barely alive with a heart that longs for rest unable to run from the danger from the dark from the monsters, an addict to hope to love to pain—a slave to the very demon that seeks to destroy—_

 

it was probably only enough to think about how minseok and luhan were. they were the kuyas, the mature ones, the ones who used to sneak off to the balcony for a smoke when all the kids have dropped dead drunk. they used to talk about the kids, about their futures, about what could happen to them, and  _god_ —he used to joke so much about luhan and minseok dating from the same group they casually call “the kids”. it would be even funnier when he brought up their failed relationship, only for one of them to pour beer on his lit cigarette, while the other remained laughing. it always happened like that and he always emerged . . .  _happy_.

 

that was what had been missing for so long. in the time that he had been gone, that was what he hasn’t been:  _happy._ _where were those times now? where did that yixing go, the yixing who laughed, who smiled? the yixing who teased the kids, the yixing who had fun, the yixing who was_ _alive?_

 

_never has he been happier than when he was in junmyeon’s arms and—_

 

junmyeon. how was he? has he moved on? was his message just a product of maudlin musings that happen every christmas? was it the guilt that finally settled in? was it the apologies that he was finally prepared to give after running away for so long? or was it some selfish demand of release for the blame that was probably put on him? he wondered if he finally resolved his issues with his father, his family, because he knew the pressure on junmyeon was still too much.  _she_ , whoever  _she_ was—does she make junmyeon happy? maybe he still compared her to him, but at the very least, does she make him happy?

 

in his absence, does she at least make him smile? does she laugh at his lame jokes? go to him when he’s sick? bring him his favorite donuts when he’s feeling down? or drunk—because a drunk junmyeon was a sad one? does she sing along to his favorite songs? not changing whatever he’s playing in the car even though junmyeon’s music taste ranges from alina baraz to fucking frank sinatra? is she okay with the kids? does she give them water when they’ve had another drinking session, almost verging on alcohol poisoning? does she cook pancit canton for sehun and jongin when their brains are fried from writing their theses?

 

does she love them too? (does she love junmyeon?)

 

because they deserve that so much. (junmyeon deserves to be loved  _so much_.)

 

sehun would probably be the first one who’d meet her, and everyone else’s opinion wouldn’t really matter aside from his. he was practically junmyeon’s little brother, his (their) adopted child even. he wondered what his opinion about  _her_  would be.

 

maybe he should look at—

 

 _fuck_.

 

if he did this, he would undo every piece of what he claimed to be progress. more than six months of effort for nothing. but hadn’t he already done that earlier?

 

 _tangina_. fine.

 

so because he was an addict, in the middle of a grand spiral descent to nothingness, he opened his twitter app and logged back in.

 

curiosity filled him as the large number of notifications greeted him. it seemed like even more people wanted to get a glimpse of their stories—more than six months ago, he would have delighted in that, seeing other people see themselves in their stories. but now, he didn’t know what to feel. after everything that happened between him and junmyeon—what story? ( _what yixing?_ )

 

he was only expecting some isolated likes in his old tweets, but there were many messages saying that they missed him. _i miss me, too._

he smiled at that a bit, only for his smile to disappear once he thought of the number of people who were probably just as disappointed because of him, disappointed in him—for disappearing, for giving up. for hurting junmyeon. immediately, he tried to steer his eyes into another direction, and his attention was captured by a couple of tweets that just tagged him using emojis. eager to see what it was about, he opened them.

 

only to see that he had been tagged in many of junmyeon’s tweets.

 

even this december, there were still many retweets that just  _spoke volumes_. he even retweeted something from the isabela banzon bot. he laughed at that. junmyeon and philippine writers seem to be a weird combination, but it had always been one of his biggest dreams for the boy to get into them before, when they were still together. he wondered if  _she_ was the one to make him get into them. 

 

_“i could’ve done the same,_

_reasoned you out of existence,_

_but I’ve decided,_

_I will love you to death, instead.”_

 

(he wondered how much of it was true.)

 

yixing scrolled down and looked at junmyeon answering questions from people. “how is your heart, kuya?” one asked. “steady,” he replied.

 

(he wished he could say the same. was he that easy to forget—to move on from, to . . . what was he kidding about? junmyeon already done so  _while_  they were still together anyway.)

 

he saw one of junmyeon’s linked songs from spotify. lord huron’s  _the night we met_  was one of them. 

 

_“i had all and then most of you_

_some and now none of you_

_take me back to the night we met_

_i don't know what I'm supposed to do_

_haunted by the ghost of you”_

 

(“i don’t know what i’m supposed to do”—what a load of bullshit, junmyeon.)

 

he should close his phone, close his account, close the night and forget. but—he was weak, and tonight, even more so than usual. he was already in a downward spiral, falling deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole. what a way to discover that his self-hatred has evolved into masochism.

 

last year, on his birthday, junmyeon’s greeting only came a week later—the best depiction of how much love was spared for him. he wondered how it was this year, if there was any? did he—did _they_ —remember, him? celebrate a day he himself regretted with every fiber of his being?  bitterly, he laughed at that. fuck that diseased, delusional part of him that was still  _clinging_ , and  _holding on_  to him—and fuck every cell in his body that promised his future a fresh start. he was a liar, and the worst part of it was that he knew exactly who was being affected by his lies, had seen _how badly_ his lies could hurt someone, and yet  _he still won’t stop._

 

but fuck it—he was already here anyway. he scrolled down even further and checked his tweet from the 6th of october.

 

it was another song again, this time from lany, titled  _taking me back._  he hadn’t listened to the band ever since they broke up, simply because he remembered how much junmyeon loved them. (and whenever he saw something junmyeon loved, he remembered him. it was why it had gotten easier to look at the mirror.)

 

he was a man of context, and his instincts were telling him to get the complete story. he searched the lyrics of the song online, not even wanting to spare it a listen.

 

_“‘cause I know you know our love is like that,_

_can I talk you into taking me back, taking me back?”_

 

for some reason . . . yixing felt . . . weird. here was his long-awaited for birthday greeting, not even a day late. and yet, and _yet_ he felt unsatisfied? he felt… frustrated. a little angry, even.

he couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face. was this it?  _moving on_? was it supposed to be like this? feeling utterly nothing in the face of his ex asking him to come back? why didn’t it feel fulfilling, or fuck, at least— _genuine_? 

 

he laughed at that. maybe this was what it felt like to love someone you didn’t trust at all—blind to whatever piece of sentiment they offer, unable to genuinely believe in their words, their affection questioned and accepted with a grain of salt.

 

and because he didn’t want to wallow in the frustration of his mangled  _feelings_ , he decided to check up on the kids instead. maybe they had better lives after he went away—he hoped they did. he checked sehun first, wanting to see what the boy (his son) was up to.

 

the boy was drunk and missing luhan, it would appear. he hoped he was at least safe. yixing was alarmed, to be honest, but he knew the kids would never let sehun go astray—he would probably be fine even without his intervention, but if the boy doesn’t tweet in a matter of hours, he knew he had to get involved and—

 

_oh._

 

he was previously with junmyeon. based from sehun’s tweets, they had been drinking. and junmyeon? drunk? with sehun’s loose fingers on twitter? yixing steeled himself for the next tweets.

 

_"lagi ko nalang naririnig yung ‘let it go, jun,’ pero paano ko naman bibitawan yun kung araw-araw nalang naaalala ko kung paano ako nanira ng buhay. paano ako naging manipulative. paano ko kinayang lahat ng iyon nagawa ko."_

 

_"tapos sa tuwing may nagsasabing ‘it's time to forgive yourself,’ akala ba nila madali. ‘paano naman yung happiness mo?’ paano yung nasaktan ko. it's a never-ending cycle of debating whether deserving ka pa of something so good. pero ayun na eh, pag gago ka. gago ka lang."_

 

he locked his phone and threw it again on the floor. he’d worry about the damage tomorrow. right now, he just—

 

he didn’t even know what he was feeling right now. it wasn’t sympathy, and for sure it wasn’t empathy either. he didn’t even think he could spare junmyeon some pity right now. maybe it’s his bruised heart (and even more bruised, basically nonexistent ego) talking but he really couldn’t believe junmyeon was still—

 

he couldn’t _believe_ it. what could he possibly still want, after all this time?

 

okay. he had to compose himself. the tendrils of anger were climbing inside of him, he was being irrational, bordering on problematic—enough to invalidate the feelings of someone who he once shared himself with. 

 

and, and maybe that’s why—why he’s so _angry_ , why he couldn’t find it in himself to feel a shred of sympathy for a hurting man. because, he could see it—junmyeon is hurting. he has been hurting, for all the wrong reasons, almost.

 

they broke up. when their relationship crumbled down into the dust that it came from, both of them got ruined, got affected forever. junmyeon’s sentiments were probably the normal consequence of those. honestly—when it comes to coping mechanisms after a breakup, it’s not like he had the right to judge, right?

 

but in the comfort of his dark, cold room, the fucking christmas lights twinkling happily at him, mocking him, and the sheer notion of his  _aloneness_  celebrating in front of his face—all he could feel right now was frustration.

 

and as problematic and as unwarranted as it sounded, he couldn’t help it.

 

(he felt like he deserved it.)

 

junmyeon was sad. junmyeon regretted everything. junmyeon was sorry. junmyeon blamed himself. junmyeon thought he doesn’t deserve anything good.  _and yet he won’t do anything about it_.

 

all he was doing was spiraling down, bringing people with him to the ground, trying to claim to everyone that he was okay when  _he wasn’t and everyone could see it._ there he was, gathering sympathy points while everyone threw pity parties for him. it was frustrating, to say the least, to see the man that he once loved (and still do) succumb into the inherent weakness of  _vanity_. he’d even go as far as to say that  _fuck_ , it was insulting—to him, to the past that they shared, to  _junmyeon himself._  junmyeon would never let himself be like this; he was too proud to do so.

 

yixing was filled with bitterness. at least he had the courage to  _leave_. he went away, dealt with his own problems, and tried his best not to implicate their friends— _the kids_ —in whatever happened between them. but here junmyeon was, his ego stroked as hundreds of people sent sad emojis into his way. at least he had chanyeol, baekhyun, jongin, kyungsoo, tao, minseok, luhan, and fucking  _sehun_  wiping his tears. yixing had nothing, because he didn’t want to be a burden.

 

and yet junmyeon—junmyeon has stagnated. not even a step towards changing who he was. is this it? is this who he was going to be, forever? a self-hating individual who doesn’t _try_ to change? not even for—if not for himself, then for the kids, their friends— _for her,_ who he has chosen to stand beside.

 

he kicked his phone under the table so he wouldn’t see it. even though it was dark, he took comfort in the idea that he didn’t know where it  _exactly_  was. angry and left restless, he took the pillow that he was using and threw it aimlessly. 

 

he was  _angry_ —so fucking  _angry_ —at the situation, at fate who allowed these things to happen, at  _junmyeon_  who showed weakness and vulnerability and fucking  _human weakness_ when he never did before (even though yixing wished so desperately for it before), and at  _himself_ , because fucking hell—

 

it’s not like he was any different from junmyeon.

 

the sun was rising, her light peeking through yixing’s blinds. there was no use of trying to sleep anymore, so he sat up from his bed and leaned his back against his bed’s adjacent wall. he stared at the table opposite his bed and just  _took a deep breath_.

 

the night was over, and yet there was no satisfaction, no fulfilment in the wait that he had done through the night. he didn’t even feel like he managed to survive— _fuck_ , he didn’t even feel alive. last night, he didn’t die—but he was reminded that he was already dead, and was a mere impostor in the land of the living. after over six months of pretending, his lies have finally caught up to him.

 

he laughed at that.

 

because suddenly, he wondered when junmyeon’s lies would catch up to him too.

 

he laughed even more; he really couldn’t help it.  _he was so angry with junmyeon but god—_ they were really the same, weren’t they? getting angry with junmyeon, with how he was coping—it was no less than similar with how he was being angry and frustrated with himself.

 

at least junmyeon acknowledged that he was hurt, telling it to the world. unlike him who just he bottled everything in, letting his mother take the burden when one night came and he succumbed to the pain and just decided to take quite a few pills too many.

 

they were a mess together, and as it would seem, even apart. yixing didn’t know what was better.

 

he took a deep breath. christmas was in a few hours, and he would have to don the mask of the yixing who has his shit together, letting his mother rejoice. but yixing knew that those were all lies—he was still yixing zhang, angry, jaded, hurt, but still hopelessly and stupidly in love with his ex.

 

frankly, if he were really,  _really_  honest with himself, he wished junmyeon would be the same too.

 

(and frankly, if he were really, really, as in honest-to-god  _honest_  with himself, he knew junmyeon was the same too.)

 

but the dawn of his—no,  _their_ —favorite holiday was near and upon them, and right now, his only prayer was that they would be okay. together or without each other—it didn’t really matter. 

 

he stood up. the sun was up now, and her light flooded his room. the phone that he kicked was apparently only a couple of inches from his feet, and miraculously, it has remained intact. he picked it up.

 

_**To +639540258xxx** _

_maligayang pasko, junmyeon. i hope we get better too. we both deserve at least that, don’t you think?_

 

_i miss all of you guys too._

 

he deleted junmyeon’s number and dismantled his phone to get his sim card.

 

he broke the small chip in half.

**Author's Note:**

> ps: not meant to be an attack. this is merely a reinterpretation of an interpretation.


End file.
